


A Shift in the Sands

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [71]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Kirk as a Prisoner, M/M, Or a Vulcan That Never Reformed, Pre-Reform Vulcan, Rescue, Warlords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: He’d been in chains when Spock first saw him, tied to a docile mount that trotted obediently at the side of T’Pring’s steed.





	A Shift in the Sands

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Ancient Rome and Marriage. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator) and [this one](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).
> 
> While no harm comes to anyone in the body of this story itself, that James has suffered some harm is very much implied.

“What I don’t understand is why you married me in the first place.”

Spock turned away from the night sky, from the high temple of stars that glittered far above them, and looks towards James in the dark. “Are you questioning the merits of my decision?”

A dry chuckle. “Me? Of course not.”

“Then from whence does your lack of understanding arise?”

In the shadows, James sighed, and Spock moved towards him, his fingers already outstretched, eager on their own for the cool brush of his mate’s skin.

“It’s not so much a lack of understanding,” James said as Spock’s hand found his hair and sank into the sleeping furs beside him, “as a sense of...gratefulness.”

Spock drew him close. His mate smelled of freja blossoms and ash, of his own spend and Spock’s, and something very old in Spock, older even than the sands that surrounded them, reveled in this, the simple sort of claim he staked every day on this man of Earth. How he had come to Vulcan in the first place, Spock was still not certain; it was not a matter that James wished to discuss. Few humans came to this planet of their own accord; fewer still survived capture by the _wal-tukh_ clan, as James had, much less emerged with flesh as unscarred as had he.

He smoothed his palms down James’ arms, swallowed the first hint of the night’s shiver. “You have made your gratitude plain to me, _ashayam_. Many times.”

“That’s not--” He could feel the human blush, the peculiar way the blood rose and coiled in his cheeks. “I mean, I know I have, it’s just--” James tilted his face, pressed his mouth against Spock’s throat. “You’ve never told me why you did it. Married me. You didn’t have to. You could’ve just freed me and walked away.”  
  
“I could have, yes.”

A soft stroke of James’ tongue. “Then why?”

“Because I am selfish. Because I admired your beauty and your strength.” He caught James’ face, lowered his mouth to meet it. “Because,” he murmured, “I could not bear the thought of any Vulcan endangering either again, and I could think of no better way to ensure that than to bind you to me.”

He’d been in chains when Spock first saw him, tied to a docile mount that trotted obediently at the side of T’Pring’s steed.

“Spock!” she called as he approached, raising a hand and bringing her camp to a halt. “I thought that was you.”

He bowed low over his reigns, holding his own mount steady. “It is I. And I am honored by your presence, T’Pring.”

She laughed, a bright bloom in the desert, and swung from her horse, moved towards him through the thick sands. “What brings you out this far? We did not think to meet you until tomorrow.”

“Our requests could not wait so long as that. The _aikum_ clan is but a few days' ride from my father’s southernmost lands.”

T’Pring squinted up at him, swept her wild hair back from her forehead. “Well, then. We will not make you wait any longer.” She turned and called to her party, who began to dismount and reach for their wares. “Do you have time enough for a fire, at least? And some refreshment.”

He had not, not at all, but to turn down the hospitality of a chieftain was akin to sticking a sword through one’s own throat. He bowed his head. “I would be honored.”

The meal passed pleasantly enough beneath the broad shade of the tent T’Pring’s people struck. As they ate and exchanged news, the clan’s wares were arranged neatly at the back of the tent, weapons of death laid out lovingly by the Vulcans who’d forged and shaped every blade. But despite the urgency of their meeting, Spock found his eyes drawn not to the swords but to the human who knelt at T’Pring’s side. His hands were bound before him and his mouth was stopped with a long, silken cloth and it seemed to Spock that he trembled, cold somehow at the peak of the day's heat.

At last, T’Pring tired of the sound of her own voice, of her own adventures, and made notice of Spock’s attentions. She reached over and smoothed a hand through the human’s dusty hair. “He is extraordinary, isn’t he?”

“I have never seen his like,” Spock said truthfully. He had seen few humans with his own eyes, it was true, but he could not recall one as lovely as this. He was dressed in loose desert silks of T’Pring’s clan’s design, pale now in the bright assault of the day, but designed to fade dark in the twilight. The skin of his throat was tan, flushed into color by the sun, and his eyes--they were a pale, glittering blue that reminded Spock of summer stars. And they were staring straight into Spock’s.

 _Help me_.

“One of my scouts found him wandering near Selaya last month,” T’Pring said. She turned away, signaling for more wine. “Blundering around in the hottest part of the desert.”

“What was he doing there?”

She shrugged. “I do not know. He refuses to speak.”

And yet, to Spock, it seemed as if the human were shouting: that gaze again upon him, pleading: _Please. Help_.

“Did you meld with him? Perhaps his mind would--”

“ _Spock_.” T’Pring shook her glass at him, playing at scandalized. “Do you think so little of me that I would subject my thoughts to whatever strange tempest I’d find in him?”

Spock dropped his eyes. “No, no. Forgive me.”

She laughed at him and sat back on the furs, stretched out her legs towards him. “I had no idea you were so interested in humans.”

He wondered why the man was so desperate to be freed. T’Pring was no sadist; she would have ensured her prize came to no harm. Until she could sell him for the right price, anyway. And there were many, many unscrupulous Vulcans in this sector who would pay a great deal and show far less restraint.

“They are a rarity, as you well know,” Spock said sharply, with more bite than he had intended. “Otherwise, why would you be flaunting yours in front of a guest?”

That got him an eyebrow. “You asked to be shown my wares, Spock. And here they are.” She downed the last of her drink and stood. “Now, will you buy what you came for, or do you wish to spoil the rest of my afternoon as well?”

Spock got to his feet, sparing one last glance towards the human. His eyes were on the ground now. He did not dare to look up.

There were moments, Spock knew, had long been taught, when the long dunes of one’s life suddenly part, when the sands of one destiny run one way and the sands of another move another. Now, as he stood in T’Pring’s tent, a silent human at his feet, an impatient warlord at his side, he felt the very desert shifting beneath him.

There were instruments of death at hand, instruments of life, and in that moment, Spock found himself caught between the two.

And then the sands settled and his path was as clear, as open, as it had ever been.

“This human,” Spock said calmly, as if it were a matter of no consequence. “What price do you ask for his head?”


End file.
